


Bah Humbug

by ShoyDragon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Drabble, Gen, Gift Fic, Loneliness, Mild Language, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:28:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShoyDragon/pseuds/ShoyDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is going to be alone this Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bah Humbug

**Author's Note:**

  * For [devinleighbee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devinleighbee/gifts).



> A few weeks ago Devin said "Oh, John Watson is going to be alone this Christmas," and I just had to write SOMETHING sad to fit... I know it could be longer and more angst-y, but I was already breaking my personal rules writing this before Thanksgiving, so I didn't want to give it TOO much thought. As always, this has not been beta'd or Brit-picked, so feel free to let me know if I missed anything in my personal editing!

John Watson is going to be alone this Christmas.

It’s something John tries to avoid thinking about, but now that the holiday season is well and truly upon him it has become sort of impossible to stop his mind from slipping into unhappy territory. Every corner boasts decorations and carolers, every store is blasting holiday music, and there’s so much tinsel everywhere it looks like Father Christmas vomited over the whole of London. Every busy shopper he passes reminds John just how much Sherlock disliked the holidays.

“It’s a marketing ploy and a huge waste of my time, John. I do not need to send out cards or gifts, especially not to people who I care nothing about.”

“And a Merry ‘Bah Humbug’ to you too!” John had laughed, looking up from the table where he was signing a Christmas card for Lestrade. “At least sign the one for Mrs. Hudson. She deserves something for all she puts up with.”

Sherlock’s retort was cut off by a moaning noise.

“I see you’re still getting those texts,” John observed.

“Not important,” Sherlock had snapped, shoving his phone back into the pocket of his dressing gown with a frown. “Mrs. Hudson knows I appreciate her without me signing my name on to whatever sentimental nonsense you’ve written in her card.”

John shook his head. “You’ll be ready for the party, yea? I told Janette to arrive in about an hour.”

“I can see from the hideous monstrosity you’ve decided to wear that you’re hoping to sleep with her tonight,” Sherlock muttered, deflecting.

John had scowled but didn’t say anything. Forty-seven minutes later, Mrs. Hudson appeared in the sitting room door, bearing a card, a bottle of brandy and a pair of antlers on a headband. Sherlock had not been amused.

John sighs and turns from the window display featuring dancing reindeer he’s been staring at. No matter where he looks, reminders of Sherlock are everywhere, and he just wants to be home, nursing the bottle of brandy he is clutching in its brown paper bag. John doesn’t care if he’s following in Harry’s footsteps, he hasn’t been alone for Christmas since he’d been deployed (the Christmas he spent in the hospital recovering from his bullet wound doesn’t count) and he’s really not looking forward to waking up tomorrow to an empty flat; no cards, no antlers, no violin solos or moaning phones… If this brandy can get Sherlock Holmes out of his head for 24 hours, John will consider that a success.

Tightening his jacket around him, John starts the slow trek back to Baker Street. He knows he probably shouldn’t be living in the same flat he shared with Sherlock for 18 months, but Mycroft insists on paying for his rent and John isn’t too proud to turn down free rooms. The memories are just as strong in 221B, but at least there John knows why he’s hearing phantom violins; the ghosts of notes played long ago still echo through the flat on particularly quiet days. On colder days, like this one, John’s limp is especially bad, and it takes him nearly twice as long as it should to get to the flat. Mrs. Hudson is off at her sister’s for the holidays this year, so John isn’t concerned about disturbing her when he knocks over the umbrella stand as he limps through the front door. Cursing, he bends over to right the stand.

“Fucking umbrellas, fucking Mycroft,” John hisses, suddenly filled with a wave of hate for the brolly-wielding Government official. He’s shoving a battered black umbrella back into the stand when he notices something.

Sitting innocently on the front mat is a plain white envelope. Snatching it up, John flips it over to discover that the only thing printed on it is his name, written in a steady hand. His heart lurches as he realizes he recognizes the hand-writing.

“Impossible…”

Umbrella stand and brandy forgotten, John races up the stairs two at a time and practically throws himself into a chair at the desk in the sitting room. With shaking fingers, he turns the envelope over in his hands twice, simply staring. Then, slowly, John opens the envelope as if it might explode. Inside he finds a card with a post-it note attached to the front;

> _Doctor Watson –_
> 
> _I know my brother meant a great deal to you. I hope this card (which was hidden amongst those belongings of his you sent me) proves how much you meant to him._
> 
> _Merry Christmas. – MH_

John pulls the sticky note out of the way and stares at the card in disbelief. It’s from the stationary set he had used the year before, but he honestly cannot remember ever seeing Sherlock touch one of the cards, never mind actually writing in one. Feeling slightly nervous, John flips the card open;

> _John –_
> 
> _I still do not understand the need to write out well-wishes and exchange gifts at this particular time of the year, but I know it is important to you for whatever reason, so I decided to give you a card despite the stupidity of the whole thing. You are important to me, John, and I could probably voice that more than I do. Thank you for providing me with medical knowledge and an excuse to make reservations at restaurants. I took the thumbs out of the vegetable drawer and bought some milk._
> 
> _Merry Bah Humbug (or whatever),_
> 
> _Sherlock_

John swallows hard, fighting back tears. Then he stands, wanders downstairs, finds the brandy and leaves it by Mrs. Hudson’s door. He stumbles back up the stairs, grabs Sherlock’s scarf from the back of the couch where it now lives, and collapses into his arm chair, pressing the scarf to his face and just breathing in the smell of chemicals and wind and Sherlock.

“And a Merry ‘Bah Humbug’ to you,” John whispers to the empty flat. “Merry ‘Bah Humbug,’ Sherlock.”

Yes, John Watson is definitely going to be alone this Christmas.


End file.
